


the weary cook's hand slips, the blind cook's hand shakes--

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fan theory, Gen, in which Mrs. Patmore may or may not have poisoned Kemal Pamuk, or - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers, and thinks,<em> well, the upstairs lot are so picky, no wonder they didn't try some<em></em></em>, thinks, <em>thank god they didn't, Carson would be miffed if I killed the His Lordship<em></em></em>. </p><p>Thinks, <em>oh dear God above and all the little angels, what have I done.<em></em></em></p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	the weary cook's hand slips, the blind cook's hand shakes--

**Author's Note:**

> I'm re watching the first season and Daisy's mistake with the almost-poisoning and Mrs. Patmore's waning sight made me wonder if there wasn't some other reason for Mr Pamuk the douche's death. So this happened. Idek.

 

She can never be certain.

After Daisy's blunder right during Mr. Mathew's first dinner, Mrs. Patmore had taken to being the one sprinkling the seasoning. She'd thought Daisy capable of it, but she was such a silly goose, that girl, always with her head in the clouds, couldn't be trusted to do anything right. Worse, she kept moving things from their place. Mrs. Patmore, struggling everyday with her waning sight, living in fear of being found out a fraud and fired, had had to resort to trusting the order of her kitchen.

That was a mistake. Kitchens, no matter how much their generals strived for them to be respectable, organized places, were not a clean battleground. One moment's distraction, a yelled order, a reaching hand, and this time it wasn't Daisy's error. This time there was no befuddled William to play the daft hero.

The next morning Mr. Pamuk, gorgeous and bright lain dead in his bed and Beryl Patmore, cook at Downton Abbey for over fifteen years, had no reason to be suspected of anything at all.

Mrs. Patmore the Elder, Martha Christenson at birth, had had a quaint little garden behind the Patmore's very crowded not-so-very-quaint cottage. The thirteenth child of an apothecary owner, she in turn had gone on to have nine children, all of whom were taught what plants to eat and apply to stews or burns or colds, which ones to avoid at all costs, which ones made a mean neighbor spend a day and a night holed him with the chamber pot. 

Beryl learned from her mother. She had grown up helping her little sisters and brothers and waiting for every meal, when she could run to the garden and pick the plants and if she was very good, Mum might let her sprinkle the seasoning. Most days she did it even if she wasn't very good, with Mum too busy with the wee ones and Da howling about how hungry he was. 

Her mother, for all her impatient lessons, had never taught her how to bring a man from the dead. 

If she did it she is sorry. Mr. Pamuk might have been foreign and his mother clearly had no sense with names, but he had been charming. She'd only seen him only once, when she'd gone out back to call Daisy when the silly girl had been mooning over Thomas' cloud of smoke and discontent, and he'd smiled and nodded his head charmingly. Pretty as he was, so much like one of the ladies' dolls from when they were wee, she'd thought him one of Thomas' sort. 

After, of course, there had been rumors about how sad Lady Mary had been. Mrs. Patmore had a hard time thinking that girl had enough a heart to break, but she liked her well enough not to grieve her loss. Too bright, he'd been, like a penny cleaned too many times 'till the shine hurt the eye, 'till it was clean enough to cover the grime in the cracks and crannies, the dust that couldn't be scrubbed off. Not the sort she'd let Daisy around, that was for sure. Lady Mary could do better.

After, Mrs. Patmore startles awake just before falling asleep, mind abuzz, chilled to the bone. She goes back to the kitchen, stumbling in the dark. Her hands shake as she opens the little box of venom, a good three pinches emptier.

She remembers, with striking detail, that Mr. Carson had wondered if she could perhaps try her hand at a more Turkish dessert, in honor of the great guest, and how she's snarled in answer and had Daisy run after every culinary book in the house for something sufficiently exotic for the great Mr. Pamuk. She remembers how very pricked she'd been, that her skills might be contested, never mind that she'd never cooked a Turkish dish in her life.

She remembers, and thinks, _well, the upstairs lot are so picky, no wonder they didn't try some_ , thinks, _thank god they didn't_ , _Carson would be miffed if I killed the his lordship_. Thinks, _oh dear God above and all the little angels, what have I done_.

After, she stumbles blindly on to her bed and lies awake the whole night and washes her hands raw and promises never to speak of this to anyone, not Elsie not anyone. After, she gets dressed and despairs of Daisy and serves breakfast, like there is red in her hands and it doesn't come off, no matter how much she scrubs them raw late at night, no matter how much she prays and doubts and rages.

Mrs. Beryl Patmore can never be certain, can she, not like most murderer's can, but she is not daft, not daft at all.


End file.
